Abram gets up and grabs more water from the kitchen, handing one bottle to me and setting the other on his nightstand. Then he crosses the room to his dresser, where he pulls out a folded T-shirt and gives it to me.
“Here,” he says. “In case you get cold.”
“Thanks.” I pull it over my head, not because I’m cold, but because suddenly, I feel exposed. I just did the most intimate thing you could do with someone, and now, suddenly, I’m worried about being naked. But as soon as the T-shirt’s on, I feel better. It’s worn and soft and hits right above my knees, perfect for sleeping.
Sleeping. Am I sleeping here? Or is that too weird? I just assumed I would, with the way he was holding me, but maybe I’ve overstepped my bounds. I don’t even know him. Are you supposed to spend the night with guys you don’t even know? In every movie I’ve ever seen, you do—people are waking up next to strangers all the time.
Abram slides back under the covers and pulls me toward him.
I settle into the crook of his arm, and he reaches into the nightstand and pulls out a remote.
“Movie?” he asks.
I nod.
He turns on the TV and starts flipping through the channels.
“Say ‘stop’ if you see something,” he says. He clicks past a Friends rerun, a true crime show, then gets to a silly Vince Vaughn movie, the one where Vince and Owen Wilson are trying to get internships at Google even though they’re both in their forties.
“Stop,” Abram and I say at the same time.
I laugh.
“You like this one?” he asks, sounding mildly surprised.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s stupid, but in a hilarious way.”
“Yeah, and how awesome does it look to work at Google?” he asks.
“Oh, totally. You know I actually googled it to see if it was true?”
“Me too,” Abram says.
I prop myself up on my elbow. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not lying. And besides, someone once told me it’s not nice to call someone a liar.” His eyes are teasing, and his tone is light. He reaches out and pushes a strand of hair off my face.
“I didn’t call you a liar,” I say. “I said you were lying.”
“Semantics,” he says. “And I told you, I’m not lying. They really do have free food at Google.”
“And open offices.”
“And gorgeous views.”
“And nap rooms,” I say sleepily.
I lay my head down on Abram’s chest, and he plays with my hair, letting the strands fall through his fingers. The rhythm of his touch and the soft hum of the television are soothing, and after a few minutes, my eyelids start to feel heavy. You’d think I’d be too keyed up after the events of the day and what just happened to fall asleep, but it’s actually the opposite. I fall right into a deep, dreamless sleep, one of the best rests I’ve had in a long, long time.
I don’t wake until someone starts knocking on the front door at around nine the next morning.
Well, pounding actually.
And ringing the doorbell a few times.
I sit up and blink sleepily. Abram is awake next to me, and he slides his feet out from under the covers and onto the floor. The muscles in his back ripple, and I shiver. I want to do what we did last night all over again.
“Hey,” he says, smiling when he sees me. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
I nod.
He stands up and disappears down the hallway, back toward the front door. I take a deep breath and turn away from the sunlight that’s filtering in through the blinds. I can hear low voices coming from the doorway. Probably someone selling something. I hope Abram gets rid of them quickly. My eyes are starting to feel drowsy again, and I want to go back to sleep.
But then I hear something that makes me sit up.
Abram’s voice, yelling. “You’re Quinn’s friend?” he’s saying.
What? Quinn’s friend? What is he talking about? Oh god. Celia and Paige! They must have shown up here, making a big stink about taking me home. Talk about embarrassing! I pop out of bed quickly, before realizing I’m not wearing any bottoms. How can I go outside without any bottoms? I think about putting my clothes from last night back on, but something about wearing a short skirt and tank top outside at this time of day seems . . . wrong.
I creep over to Abram’s dresser and pull out a pair of sweatpants, then pull them on. I pause for a second, wondering if he’ll think I’m a psycho stalker for just helping myself to his clothes, and then I realize I don’t care, because he’s going to think I’m even crazier if Paige and Celia start yelling at him.
There’s an unfamiliar male voice coming from the doorway, and my heart leaps into my throat as I start hurrying down the hall. Mr. Beals! Could Celia and Paige have told Mr. Beals I wasn’t in my room? They said they were going to do room checks! Oh my god! They must have found out I wasn’t in my room, and now they’re all looking for me. They’ve probably called my parents; they’re probably on their way down here! Why didn’t Paige and Celia just text me, why didn’t they—
Oh.
It’s not Mr. Beals at all.
It’s Beckett Cross.
Beckett Cross is standing at Abram’s front door. Why would Beckett be at Abram’s house? I hardly know him. Unless he’s friends with Abram. But Abram never mentioned being friends with someone from my school. And if they’re friends, why weren’t they hanging out? As I get closer to the front door, Abram turns around.
“Do you know this guy?” he asks me.
“Yeah, I . . . I mean, kind of.”
I step out onto the porch so I can talk to Beckett and try to figure out what the hell is going on. And then I see her. Lyla. She’s standing on the sidewalk in front of Abram’s house, looking around nervously.
“Lyla?” I ask, shading my eyes from the sun to make sure what I’m seeing is right.
“Oh, hi,” she says, like it’s not a big deal for her to be showing up at the house of the guy I just slept with. With Beckett Cross nonetheless. Are those two, like, a thing now? I remember how I saw him carrying her bag onto the plane yesterday. Is Lyla still with Derrick? And if she’s not, is she with Beckett now? Is she having some kind of breakdown?
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
“Just, um . . .” Lyla looks around, like she’s trying to figure it out herself. But there’s nothing around to explain her presence. In fact, the neighborhood is pretty quiet, except for the chirp of the birds and the sound of the neighbor lady, who’s watering her plants with a hose and watching us intently.
“We came to check on you,” Beckett says matter-of-factly. He turns and looks to Lyla for confirmation. “Lyla, tell her we came to check on her!”
“Check on her for what?” Abram asks. His tone sounds kind of menacing, like he can’t believe anyone would insinuate that he’s doing something untoward with me. Even though we did something untoward last night. Can Lyla tell I’ve been up to no good? I know it’s screwed up, but I kind of hope she can. I want her to feel shocked by me, to realize she doesn’t know me anymore, that she doesn’t know what I’m like or how I behave. Maybe then she’ll realize you’ve changed and give you another chance.
“To make sure she was okay!” Beckett says to Abram. He turns to me. “Quinn, are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m fine!”
“You seem upset,” Lyla calls from the sidewalk. “We should probably go.”
Oh, for the love of god. Now she’s worried about me being upset? She didn’t stop to think about that before she showed up here? Am I even upset? I can’t decide. On one hand, it’s annoying that she’s showing up here with Beckett Cross, who I don’t even know. On the other hand, it’s the first time in two and a half years Lyla’s shown any indication that she gives a crap about me, which is actually kind of nice.
“She’s fine,” Abram says. “Now you want to tell me who the hell you are and what the hell you’re doing here?”
?
??Jesus,” Beckett says. “Take a chill pill. We’re friends of Quinn’s. We just came to make sure she was okay. Which we already told you.”
“Quinn, are these people friends of yours?” Abram asks.
I think about it. Beckett definitely isn’t my friend, but Lyla . . . I look down to where she’s standing at the bottom of the driveway. She’s got her arms wrapped around herself and she’s moving nervously back and forth, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Is she my friend? I want to say yes. But why does she think she has the right to just show up here like this? To just show up here and act like she’s all concerned about me, when, let’s face it, she’s done nothing but blow me off for years. It’s not fair. It’s not right. My heart softens a little when I think about how she must have been worried enough to come and try to find me. But what made her think it was okay to try to interfere with my life when she knows I want nothing to do with her? It’s really incredibly arrogant when you think about it.
“No,” I say firmly.
The woman across the street drops her hose onto the ground.
“Bill!” she yells. “Bill, come quick! There’s going to be a domestic disturbance.”
A domestic disturbance? What is she talking about? She’s obviously been watching too many crime shows. This situation is nowhere close to becoming a domestic disturbance.
“No, there’s not!” Lyla yells at the woman. “Beckett! Come on! She’s fine! Let’s go!”
Wow. For someone who’s supposedly so concerned, she’s giving up pretty quickly. What if I wasn’t fine? What if Abram was holding me here against my will, and I had to say I was okay, even though I wasn’t, because I was scared of him? Hasn’t Lyla ever heard about victims becoming brainwashed by their captors? Elizabeth Smart, hello? And yeah, I’m pretty sure it takes longer than just a day to become brainwashed, but still.
Beckett shakes his head at us one more time, like Abram and I should be happy he and Lyla came out here to check on me, like showing up randomly at someone’s house is a good thing instead of something you shouldn’t do unless you have a really good reason to think something bad is happening.
Beckett turns around and starts walking down the driveway, and I breathe a sigh of relief. The last thing I wanted was to end up getting into some kind of drama with Lyla and Beckett. One, because I don’t even know Beckett, and two, because I don’t want to talk to Lyla, and even if I did, the last place I would want to do it is in the driveway of the guy I just lost my virginity to.
My relief is short-lived, though, because as Beckett’s walking away, he says, “That guy’s an asshole.” He’s saying it to Lyla, but he says it loud enough so that Abram and I can hear. Actually, I’m pretty sure he purposely says it loud enough so Abram and I can hear.
“Hey,” Abram calls after him. “What’d you call me?”
Beckett turns around. “I called you an asshole.”
Oh, for the love of god.
I look at Lyla, one of those looks like, Are you seriously going to let this happen right now? but she obviously doesn’t get it, because she just gives me a friendly smile. I scowl and look away. Why is she even here? It’s obvious she just woke up, because she’s wearing her—
Wait a minute.
Is she wearing my shorts?
“Are those my shorts?” I ask incredulously.
“No,” she says. “They’re mine.” She’s lying. I mean, what are the chances that she and I have the exact same shorts? Yes, they’re just plain black ones, but still. I thought I’d have to worry about Aven taking my stuff, and now it turns out I have to worry about Lyla, too. No wonder I’m not friends with the two of them anymore. They’re a couple of thieves.
“What did you call me?” Abram asks again. He takes a step off the porch and onto the driveway.
“I. Called. You. An. Asshole.” Beckett turns around and takes a step closer to the house.
“Come on,” Lyla pleads with him, “this isn’t any of our business.”
Oh, now she’s all nervous about people’s privacy. Maybe she should have thought about that before she stalked me down wearing my own shorts.
“Get out of here,” Abram says.
But Beckett takes another step toward him, and a shot of adrenaline pulses through my body. They’re not really going to fight, are they? Over what? Beckett calling Abram an asshole? That seems like a really stupid reason to get into a fight. Is Abram a loose cannon? Is he the type of guy who goes off on someone for no reason? I realize how truly little I know about him, and it’s kind of unsettling.
“Beckett,” Lyla says. “Stop. Just stop.” There’s a certain familiarity in her tone, and I wonder again what the deal is with the two of them. Are they together? They seem like an unlikely match, although like I said, I don’t really know that much about Beckett. I’m interested in spite of myself.
From a few streets away comes the sound of a police siren.
“That’s the police!” the woman from across the street yells. “My husband has called the police. And as soon as they get here, I’m going to fill out a report. I’m going to fill out a report and make sure that this neighborhood doesn’t go the way of the ghetto.”
I almost laugh out loud, because she’s really getting riled up. And over what? Teenage boys posturing? I’m relieved to realize that if Beckett and Abram really wanted to fight, they would have started by now. I’ve seen enough stupid fights in the halls at school to realize they start quickly. Yes, there might be a little bit of trash talking, but if people want to fight, they fight.
“Beckett,” Lyla says, “please, come on.” She sounds freaked out, like she’s really worried that the police are going to come and get her in trouble. Well, that’s what she gets for crashing my party and trespassing. Then Lyla decides to take it to the next level. “The police are going to come and arrest you!” she screams at Beckett. “Do you want to spend the day in jail?”
She’s acting completely ridiculous, and I kind of feel bad for just standing here and watching the whole thing play out. Obviously I would never let Lyla and Beckett go to jail just because they wanted to make sure I was okay. Even though it would kind of serve them right.
“Fine,” Beckett says to Lyla, “come on.” He starts walking backward down the driveway, glaring at Abram the whole time. Abram just stands there, staring him down. Boys! I mean, seriously.
Finally, Beckett and Lyla disappear around the corner.
Abram turns around.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine.” The sun is beating down on us, and I notice for the first time that Abram’s not wearing a shirt. It’s kind of weird, seeing him out here half-naked. Don’t get me wrong, he looks amazing—defined chest, chiseled abs, a flat stomach. . . . But it’s one thing to be naked with someone in their bed, it’s another to be out here, in the light of day, with someone who doesn’t have a shirt on. Also, I’m wearing his clothes.
“I, um, grabbed a pair of sweatpants,” I say. “I hope you don’t mind.”
He grins. “I don’t mind.”
“Okay.”
We just stand there for a moment, and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do now. Go back to the hotel? Tell him thanks? Give him my number so it doesn’t seem like I’m the kind of girl who sleeps with a guy and just expects not to hear from him again? Even though I totally don’t expect to hear from him again. Do I? I mean, it wasn’t my intention to put any expectations on this when I had sex with him, but now I don’t know if—
A police car pulls up across the street. The woman with the hose goes running over to the cops, gesturing at us and pointing excitedly.
Abram sighs. “Sorry,” he says. “I’d handle this myself, but they’re probably going to want to talk to you, too.”
He sounds kind of weary, like he’s been through this before and knows exactly what the cops are going to ask and who they’re going to want to talk to. I have that same strange feeling again—that I don’t really know him, that
he could have a criminal record a mile long, or even a warrant out for his arrest.
Suddenly, what seemed exciting and fun last night now just seems ridiculously stupid. Yeah, I didn’t get into Stanford, but did I really have to go and jeopardize everything? I’m sure Yale and Georgetown aren’t going to be too thrilled if they find out I’ve had a run-in with the police. And I think they check that stuff one last time even after you’ve gotten accepted.
Abram runs back into the house to grab a T-shirt, and when he comes back out, he starts walking down the driveway toward the police car.
And after a second, I take a deep breath and follow him.
TEN
THE POLICE ARE ACTUALLY REALLY COOL about the whole thing. Since Beckett and Lyla are already gone, there’s no one to question except for us. It also helps that the woman across the street (whose name turns out to be Barbara) is a drama queen. Apparently she calls the police, like, a lot. So when the cop shows up, he’s a little suspicious of her already.
He asks me if I’m okay, makes a note of the incident, and then drives off. Barbara’s pretty disappointed, and she heads into the house, mumbling about how she’s going to be writing a letter to her congressman about the police force being completely ineffective.
“That was insane,” Abram says once we’re back inside.
I follow him to the kitchen, where he pulls out a couple of glasses and fills them with water from the tap.
“I’ve never been questioned by the police before.” I take the glass from him and take a sip. The water is cool and refreshing.
Abram laughs. “You’ve never been questioned by the police before?”
I shake my head. “Why is that funny? Are you used to being with girls who have?”
“No, it’s just . . . I would hardly call that being questioned by the police.”
“We totally were! There was a policeman, and he asked us questions.”
This makes him laugh even harder. “Being questioned by the police means they bring you down to the station, sit you in a room, and interrogate you for hours. Talking to a cop in your driveway because some crazy lady across the street freaked out is not being questioned by the police.”